


punk rock stage

by beemotionpicture



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Band Fic, Childhood Friends, M/M, Mutual Pining, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:14:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27714590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beemotionpicture/pseuds/beemotionpicture
Summary: The thing about Linhardt is that he’s aliar. A lying liar who lies, and one who also has dozens of Caspar's shitty t-shirts in his closets because he'd rather buy them all than tell his friend he doesn't have any fans.Meanwhile, all Caspar wants to do is make music. Sweet, beautiful melodies with Linhardt, in fact.Or: two idiots fall in love.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34
Collections: Casphardt Minibang 2020





	punk rock stage

**Author's Note:**

> My pinch hit for the Casphardt Minibang 2020 prompt: "Caspar is the frontman of a pretty crappy indie rock band and Linhardt is his long suffering best friend who "sells" t-shirts because he loves him."
> 
> Thank you so much to Box and Chanel, whose lovely art is featured in my fic. You guys were amazing to work with!

**BUT MAKE IT FASHION♫**

“How do I look?” Caspar flexes his arms and grins.

“Like a tool,” Linhardt says immediately, casually flipping the pages of his notebook. 

“Wait, no, I meant my shirt,” Caspar backpedals. There’s a hint of a crack in his voice when he whines, “You’re not even looking!”

To his credit, Linhardt does look up at that, only to raise an eyebrow and read, “Sun’s Guns, Out Out?”

“Bwuh— _no!_ ” Caspar sputters, stretching his shirt in front of him so he could look down at it helplessly. “It’s Sun’s Out, Guns Out! Linhardt, what even?”

He turns around and models the shirt, even dabbing once or twice. PUNK ROCK STAGE, the back says—as the name of his band, he probably should’ve had it on the front instead, but oh well.

“And just how many of those did you have printed?” Linhardt says, looking close to rolling his eyes as he had many times during this conversation. But the thing is that he never _does_ do it, and that’s why he and Caspar have been best friends since childhood. “Please say downwards of ten—”

“Fifty!”

“Dear Sothis.”

“And look, look,” Caspar rummages through a box behind him, before shaking out a tank top and pulling it flush against his chest. He pats the slogan emblazoned across it, saying eagerly, “I got these babies thrown into the deal.” 

“Sun’s Out…” 

“Buns Out!”

“Oh for the love of— _Caspar,_ ” Linhardt groans.

“S’good, right?” Caspar nudges, examining the tank once more. He thinks the band’s logo looks a little wonky, the screenprint smelling faintly of noxious fumes, but that’s totally fine. Nobody will notice because it’s got such a **sick** design. “It’s perfect for my upcoming show.”

“What show? No one’s booked you this month,” Linhardt says exasperatedly. He pauses. “… have they?”

“Well,” Caspar says, drawn out. He falls backward onto his bed and stretches out his arms, yawning, “not _yet._ But I saw a poster for this variety show, and the auditions are this Saturday. Come with?” He turns to his side and props himself up on one elbow, before batting his eyelashes up at Linhardt, who makes a face.

“I’m not doing anything then, so… I suppose,” Linhardt says, sounding put out. 

Caspar throws his arms around him, nuzzling his cheek. “Thanks, Linhardt!”

Linhardt sighs. He takes the notebook he’d placed aside earlier—the one Caspar had lay on, whoops—and smooths the pages out with his hands. “ _Do_ try not to ruin this one too.”

Caspar’s smile turns sheepish. “Sorry about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, but Linhardt’s already shaking his head not to worry about it. “Hey, uh, what is that, anyway?”

Linhardt pauses, looking down at the notebook in his lap before holding it up to show Caspar what’s written on the paper. Caspar tilts his head at it, looking like a lost puppy, and Linhardt chuckles at him.

“It’s a ledger,” he explains. “The one for your t-shirt sales.”

“Oh! Cool!” Caspar takes it into his hands (carefully!) to leaf through it. “Wow, we’ve sold this much over the years? Dude,” he looks up at Linhardt with sparkling eyes, “you’re awesome, thank you!”

“You’ve thanked me once already,” Linhardt reminds him.

“Yeah, but that was for the other thing. This is for—well, _this!_ ” He holds the notebook like it’s the most precious item in the world. “You’ve been so supportive of me, even though everyone else told me my band idea was stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid, Caspar.” For some reason, Linhardt looks kind of sad when he says this. He’s never liked it when people make fun of Caspar, after all.

“You’re the best. I love you, man.”

“… You’re welcome.” 

**PANTS ON FIRE♫**

The thing about Linhardt is that he’s a _liar._ A lying liar who lies, in fact.

There are three things he has lied about.

One. Caspar may not remember this, but Linhardt _had_ told him to forget about starting a band. He hadn’t called it stupid at the time, because nothing Caspar did would ever make Linhardt call him that—but he’d said it was a bad idea, that Caspar should consider it more carefully. But the thing about _Caspar_ is, well… When does he ever think about something twice?

Two, and probably the most incriminating. Linhardt has dozens— _dozens—_ of shirts stashed in his closet. The ledger is, quite frankly, nothing but a farce. Caspar doesn’t have any fans, and his rock band is pretty crappy. But Caspar never looks as happy as he does when performing onstage, and Linhardt would be damned if he were ever to begrudge him that.

And finally, three. Caspar’s gotten pretty affectionate over the years; for goodness sake, he says he loves Linhardt on a regular basis. Linhardt has never said it back, because he knows it’s different. He knows that Caspar would never accept his feelings and that, if Linhardt were to say those words, he might never look at him the same way again.

So yes. Linhardt is a liar and a cheat and a fraud, which is why he tries to be as supportive as possible.

“Oh my god, that looks amazing!” Caspar exclaims, leaning over Linhardt’s shoulder so he can see the screen. Linhardt’s currently making a website for PUNK ROCK STAGE, which is honestly something he should’ve done a while back. “You’re a godsend!”

Linhardt wonders how he can fake the number of hits the site gets, in case Caspar asks. There’s probably some software out there that can do that, and hopefully, it’s free—it’s not like he has any more money to spend, after all.

“It’s not that great,” he says, and it really isn’t. It looks reminiscent of those geocities yahoo websites from the nineties, the ones with the text graphics like “The More You Know” meme. And Linhardt’s been trying pretty hard… Well, ish. He’s been battling sleep for hours, which counts as effort for him.

“No,” Caspar turns to him with bright eyes, looking like Linhardt had just hung the moon. “I love it.”

Linhardt yawns then, and Caspar blinks down at him as if only now registering the bags under his eyes. He stretches his arms over his head and says, “Well, that’s it for today. I am going to sleep, and you are _not_ going to keep me up with your music.” He gives Caspar a pointed look.

“That was one time!”

“It was five times, in fact.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“… If you think for one second that I’m going to play ‘nuh-uh’ with you, then you’re the one who needs sleep.”

“Aw, you’re no fun.” Caspar sticks his tongue out. “But no, seriously, get some sleep. I’ll be quiet, promise.” He holds out his pinky and Linhardt, sighing, hooks his own around it. “Night, Linhardt.” He smiles, soft and familiar.

When Linhardt lies down on Caspar’s bed and takes in his scent, his warmth, he falls asleep almost immediately. His sleep paralysis demon takes the form of sunshine and blue skies, and it strokes his hair while he drifts off, reminding him of something he will never have.

**AUDITION AUSCHMITION♫**

Caspar’s familiar with Edelgard von Hresvelg and her trusty sidekick Hubert, of course; it’s difficult to imagine the former without the latter shadowing her. He’d even go as far as to call all of them tentative friends, even though Hubert has said many, many times that Caspar is “loud” and _a_ “nuisance” and that he “shouldn’t stand on the furniture”. But those are probably terms of endearment, coming from him! Probably.

Getting back to the point: currently, Edelgard and Hubert are, to Caspar’s immense excitement, holding auditions in a multi-purpose hall at Garreg Mach University.

He finds Edelgard’s vision of the variety show… _interesting._ It’s an open-air concert, but most of the acts auditioning today aren’t even musicians. Actually, the only singer he recognizes is Dorothea, who’d told him about the event in the first place.

She goes before him, and her singing is enchanting. They might not share a genre, but even Caspar can appreciate her ballads and the occasional pop song. Dorothea is one of those people who’s just meant to perform—and boy, does she work her ass off to do it.

Dorothea returns backstage to where he and the others are prepping for their audition, and the first thing she does when she spots him is give him a smile that reaches her eyes. She’s definitely warmed up to him over the years, and Caspar thinks of her as a sister.

“Lin’s not with you today?” she asks, looking around. “That’s strange.”

“Nah, he’s here. In the audience,” Caspar pokes his head around the curtain and points him out, and Dorothea lets out an _ahh._ For some reason, there’s a twinkle in her eye. Caspar’s defensive when he says, “What?”

“Nothing,” Dorothea replies, sing-song. He pouts, but all she does is pat him on the shoulder. “You’ll get there eventually, Caspar.”

He squints at her. “You’re not making any sense, but okay.” He shrugs, and it draws her attention to his shirt.

“Oh my _goddess,_ ” she laughs, near-cackling, and Caspar wonders how anyone could think she’s a lady. At least she tries to smother it until she’s only giggling. “Caspar, you’ve outdone yourself. How many awful t-shirt designs does that make?”

“Seven!” he says proudly. “And they’re not awful, they’re **cool.** Linhardt manages to sell most of them a lot of the time.”

“Right,” Dorothea sounds unconvinced, but she lets it go. “You ready to perform today? There’s a lot of talent, you know. I think even Lysithea’s here to do magic tricks.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. I don’t know how Annette managed to rope her into it, but she did—”

There’s a massive _BOOM!_ from the stage, and everybody, startled, makes their way to the curtains to look. Blue smoke rises from a bucket of water, decorated with crude paper mache to make it look like a cauldron, and there is the aforementioned Annette with the tips of her hair singed. Lysithea is remarkably composed, albeit a little irritated.

There’s some reluctant clapping in the audience, and Caspar sees Edelgard pinching the bridge of her nose as though warding off an oncoming headache. 

“That was lovely, thank you,” she says warily. “Next!”

“And that’s my cue,” Caspar says, grinning. The smoke hasn’t dissipated, but he figures it’d make for a nice backdrop. Dorothea wishes him good luck, and off he goes.

**7 TIPS FOR BETTER LYRICS♫**

It isn’t in Linhardt’s nature to make small talk, but when he sees Hubert glowering at the stage where Caspar had stood not moments ago, he feels as though he has to step in.

“What did you think?” Linhardt asks. That glower is suddenly directed towards him, but he remains unaffected. “… Well? Perhaps you should use your words, Hubert.”

 _That_ seems to impress him even less than Caspar’s performance. Hubert glances towards Edelgard where she’s furiously typing at her phone, before he turns back to Linhardt and says through gritted teeth, “If the only reason you’re approaching me is because you’re concerned for your friend, then you need not worry. His performance was… acceptable.”

“Ah. So, what you mean to say is that this audition really _was_ a farce. Alright, that was all. Goodbye—” Linhardt turns around to leave, ignoring the snarl that Hubert hurls in his direction.

Unsurprisingly, Caspar gets in. There hadn’t been that many acts in the first place, and Linhardt supposes Edelgard is desperate.

Which isn’t to say that Linhardt doesn’t enjoy Caspar’s music, because he does. He’d have preferred it if there weren’t so much _screaming,_ of course, but he wouldn’t keep attending each of Caspar’s gigs if he genuinely couldn’t stand the music.

… Well, maybe he would have. Caspar is important to him, and music is important to Caspar. Linhardt’s eardrums would just have to forever survive through the power of Love **TM**. 

They’re at Caspar’s house again, in his living room, and on the couch. A voice in his head that sounds just like Dorothea says it’s the perfect place to get cozy, but pretending to stretch to put his arm around Caspar in true romcom fashion is way too much effort, not to mention utterly ridiculous. He’d much rather stay propped up on some pillows and be lulled to sleep by the sound of Caspar playing the guitar.

But then Linhardt hears scratching, and he reluctantly opens his eyes. He sees Caspar with his tongue sticking out, attention focused on sheets of paper scattered across the coffee table.

Caspar looks almost peaceful. He remains still, a look of concentration on his face. Linhardt feels his heart constrict, knowing that he’s the only one who gets to see Caspar like this. It’s a shame that people don’t realize how seriously he takes his work, but truth be told, Linhardt likes that he has this Caspar all to himself.

“What are you doing?” He sits up, peering at what he expects to be chicken scrawl, but it’s surprisingly decipherable. These aren’t his notes from class, nor are they music sheets; no, they’re lyrics, written in a steady hand.

_time for something softer_

_cry a bit, smile a bit_

_try and woo you proper_

_my brave, little lionheart_

Linhardt raises his eyebrows. “Writing a new song, are you,” he says dryly, resisting the urge to cringe at the cheesy lyrics that, for the most part, make absolutely no sense.

“Yeah! Edelgard was wondering if I had something more mellow. It’s a family event, so I can’t use my usual set.”

Now that he’s mentioned it, there does seem to be something different about these lyrics than usual. Caspar doesn’t really write love songs, but these are almost poetic. If you can consider _try and woo ya_ poetry.

Linhardt scoots over to see the rest of the papers. A closer look reveals that Caspar’s written not one but _seven_ songs, all of them about strange topics. He’s got something written about “the color of viridian pine” for starters.

They’re not bad, but they could be better. Linhardt’s never really read poetry, but he’s undoubtedly listened to a lot of music (mostly Caspar’s playlists). Surely something can be done about the corniness.

“May I borrow that?” Linhardt says, and Caspar blinks. He hands over the pencil, and Linhardt carefully avoids touching the end that Caspar’s bitten into.

With it, he scratches out some words and writes new ones in their place with his neat script.

Caspar’s craning his neck to see what Linhardt’s doing, and when he sees the additions, his eyes widen. 

“How’s this?” Linhardt says, carefully watching Caspar for his reaction.

Caspar scans the page again, mouthing the words to himself. He takes a long time, focus not wavering once.

Then, he begins to sing.

He’s not using his guitar. Caspar even stops a few times because Linhardt’s words don’t fit the melody exactly. Still, there’s just something about this moment—just pure, unfiltered music.

Linhardt smiles. No matter how many times he’s allowed to see Caspar like this, it never gets old.

**MIC CHECK; IS THIS THING ON?♫**

“ONE TWO THREE,” Caspar booms into the mic. It’s not nearly as loud as he wants it to be. “CAN EVERYBODY HEAR ME?”

“YES!” Edelgard shouts from backstage. “We’ve _been_ hearing you for the last ten minutes!”

Caspar only now notices that most people are covering their ears. He gives a sheepish laugh, which translates into a squeal from the speakers. “Heh. Sorry about that.”

Hubert glares daggers at him from the audience, and Petra laughs brightly from where she sits on the stage, legs dangling over the edge. Caspar had asked her specifically for help with his soundcheck, and thankfully she seems amused by the other acts. Caspar’s friend, Ferdinand, claps politely from the audience beside Hubert, who directs his glare at him instead. Bernadetta, who’d been tasked with helping Linhardt out at the t-shirt stand, is nowhere to be found.

There are enough dirty looks pointed in his direction that he figures it’s time to take a break and let Raphael do his eating challenge thing.

“Wait,” Caspar had said doubtfully earlier that day. “You don’t actually need to eat for rehearsal, do you?”

Raphael had just winked at him and said, “Practice makes perfect, buddy.” Funny guy, that one.

“Linhardt!” Caspar finds him setting up PUNK ROCK STAGE’s t-shirt booth, hauling boxes around, and panting. Well, it _is_ a lot of heavy lifting. “Need some help?”

“No, it’s—it’s fine,” Linhardt replies, out of breath. He holds up a hand and leans against the cloth-covered table. “I just—need a second…”

Bemused, Caspar sits him down on a chair at the back of the booth. He smiles down at Linhardt fondly, a little worry in his eyes. “Thanks for doing all of this again.”

“Anytime,” Linhardt says, and Caspar knows he means it. It warms his heart, really. “Now, I need a nap.”

“Rest, buddy!”

Linhardt waves him away. “Only joking. There are too many boxes left for me to unload.”

“Bro, really.” Caspar puts his foot down, cheeks puffed up. He’s trying for “serious”, but ends up landing somewhere near “chipmunk”. “Don’t overwork yourself, okay?” He’s waved aside. “Bro. Bruh. BRO—”

“Alright, alright.” Linhardt laughs him off.

He has a nice laugh, Caspar thinks. He has a nice voice too, and if Caspar hadn’t known from years of dragging him to karaoke that Linhardt can’t sing for shit, then he’d insist on hearing that sweet voice more often. Not that Linhardt has a _sweet_ voice per se, what is he saying, because it’s more of a monotone—but Caspar thinks it _could_ make beautiful melodies with him, he’d like to _make_ Linhardt’s voice sing in ways that he’d never done before—

“Ahem.”

Caspar snaps back to attention, looking back at Linhardt who, really, has kind of a meh voice if he’s being objective. Which he is. Because nothing about Linhardt makes him biased in any way. Nope.

“Yeah?”

Linhardt pauses for a moment, looking somewhere behind Caspar. “I think someone’s calling you.”

Sure enough, Edelgard is waving him backstage. Caspar sighs; he hasn’t spent nearly enough time with Linhardt today.

“Be right back,” he calls out, already running for the stage.

**UNRESOLVED SEXUAL TENSION HEADACHE♫**

Linhardt is miserable.

It isn’t as though he _likes_ doing all this work, and he hadn’t been joking when he’d said he wanted to nap. For some reason, not even Caspar’s mic check had been able to keep him focused. He’d had a terrible headache all afternoon, and the heavy lifting hadn’t exactly been doing much to help.

Where’s Bernadetta when you need her? Linhardt sits there for goddess knows how long, before heaving a sigh and forcing himself up, planning on doing her work along with his.

As he does, he makes himself think through the fog in his head.

Why is he so desperate to win Caspar’s affection like this? Caspar would like him even if he hadn’t sold any shirts throughout the years, as long as he doesn’t let his feelings slip—but truth be told, he knows the exact reason why.

He doesn’t want to see Caspar hurt.

Caspar is earnest and caring and hardworking. The mere thought of seeing his dreams broken makes Linhardt sick to his core, and the idea that other people don’t see his value makes Linhardt furious. Caspar’s music may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but he isn’t a bad performer. He _isn’t._

The memory of Caspar singing the other day hits him like a truck; remembering the way he’d smiled as he sang those lyrics, _Linhardt’s_ lyrics, makes him inordinately happy. He remembers the starkness of Caspar’s eyelashes against his cheeks, his voice ringing through the air. They had been so close. He remembers it all.

He texts Bernadetta to ask where she is, and of course, gets no reply. Linhardt doesn’t blame her; she probably has plenty of other things to do in her room. 

It’s with a heavy heart—heavy chest, heavy limbs, heavy eyelids—that he goes back to work. 

**BACKSTAGE PASS, OR FLORIDA MAN COLLAPSES (IN TEARS)♫**

As Caspar finishes the tasks Edelgard had set for him, he grumbles to himself. He doesn’t mind the work, or even being seen as an errand boy, but he does hate that he can’t have more time to spend with Linhardt.

Or actually… Maybe it’s for the best. He doesn’t want to give anything away.

Dorothea catches him grinning to himself as he puts the mic stands away, and surely enough, she asks him about it. “What’s got you in such a good mood, Caspar?” she says, an eyebrow raised. She’s smiling too, however, because Caspar’s moods have always been infectious.

“Nothin’,” he says, totally lying. He’s grinning like a loon, and he knows it.

“Come _on,_ ” she drags out the vowels, wanting in on what she probably thinks is gossip.

“Nope.”

“Pretty please?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.

Caspar glances around, squinting for any possible listeners; he’d never been able to resist for long, and truthfully he’s itching to tell someone. Then he leans in close and tells her, “Okay, but you can’t tell anyone.”

“Of course!”

“ _Anyone._ ”

“I get it, I get it. Out with it!”

Warmth is creeping up Caspar’s neck because now he has to _say_ it. “I’m writing a song.”

“And?” Dorothea’s eyes glitter, as though she’s waiting for something in particular.

“It’s for Linhardt,” he finally says.

Dorothea squeals, and he winces. Just what he expected.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he continues, crossing his arms because otherwise he’d be vibrating with nervous energy.

He asks himself what exactly “the wrong idea” is, even. There’s just something he wants to get off his chest—he’d had a heavy feeling ever since the other day when Linhardt had written those lyrics for him. They had been _for him,_ and he’d been overjoyed.

Why does it matter so much to him? 

“Hm.”

“Really. I’m just doing this because I owe him. He’s done so much for me already, and—he’s important to me,” Caspar says earnestly. He doesn’t have the words to describe _why_ it matters, but so what.

Reluctantly, Dorothea just nods. “Alright. If you say so, Cas,” she replies, giving him a small, private smile. She puts her hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “Just make sure you know what you want.”

Caspar grinned back, worries dispelled. “You’re the best, Dorothea.”

She giggled. “I know.”

Caspar and Dorothea spend the remaining time working together to finish (well, it’s an 80:20 effort) when some ruckus outside interrupts them.

He frowns, tilting his head at her in question. She shrugs in response, and both of them leave the tent curiously… 

… only to see Linhardt’s prone form on the ground, people surrounding him.

Caspar’s eyes widen and, after rushing across the field, he pushes through to the front of the crowd and gets on his knees beside him. 

“ _Linhardt?!_ ” he cries out, and despite the panic he tries to be gentle as he shakes him. Absently he registers the overturned box and the shirts on the ground, but neither of those is important now. All he can think of is Linhardt.

Linhardt, whose eyes flutter open a few moments later. Caspar lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“Are you okay?” Caspar can tell that he isn’t, though. Linhardt’s usually pale face is flushed with fever, and he knows that isn’t a good sign. “Can you stand up?” Shakily, Linhardt nods, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Caspar’s lips press into a thin line and he urges, “Let’s get you home.”

The others are there for them, Ferdinand helping Caspar take Linhardt to the car while Dorothea and Petra offer to take care of the stand. Caspar breathes a sigh of relief, hoping Linhardt will be okay.

**COME OUT OF THE CLOSET♫**

Linhardt has a massive headache and a stuffy nose to boot, but he’s alive. Caspar, thankfully or not thankfully, is with him in his room, with a batch of homemade chicken soup that looks distinctly _not_ like it’s supposed to.

“You really don’t have to feed me,” he says, warily watching as Caspar pries open the lid of the soup container. Is it just him or does the broth look _green?_

“But I want to!” 

“Let me correct myself. _Please_ don’t feed me."

Caspar furrows his brows, a stubborn set in his jaw, and Linhardt, sighing, relents. After letting him have a taste, Caspar waits for Linhardt to swallow, looking antsy.

“It’s not bad.” Linhardt’s maybe bending the truth a little again, but he’s so used to doing it at this point that it doesn’t even matter. 

“Good.” Caspar nods earnestly. “You need to get your strength back.”

Linhardt hides a smile.

It’s a nice, quiet moment to share between just the two of them… but then Linhardt sneezes up a storm, and Caspar spills some soup on the cloth of his shirt.

There’s a beat.

“Shit, sorry!!”

Linhardt’s back to sighing tiredly; hadn’t there been enough excitement today? 

Caspar tucks the tupperware away carefully and hops up from his seat and rushes to the closet, mumbling about getting Linhardt a new shirt. Linhardt closes his eyes, leaning back against the pillow tiredly.

“Aw, hey, you bought one!” Caspar says all of a sudden, delighted, and Linhardt’s eyes snap open. “Buddy, I would’ve given it to you for free if you’d asked! … Well,” he rubs his head sheepishly, “maybe at a discount.”

When he sees Caspar holding up The Fugly Shirt with a bright grin on his face, Linhardt’s stomach lurches, and it’s not from the godawful soup he’d just forced down. “Wait, Caspar—”

But he’s already turning back and rummaging through the closet. Linhardt can’t see his face, but he knows—just _knows—_ when Caspar sees the rest of the shirts. It’s because Caspar pauses and tilts his head like he does when he’s answering a particularly difficult math problem, which is precisely what this is because there isn’t actually any reasonable explanation for Linhardt to have tens of t-shirts in his closet when they were supposed to have been _sold_ over the years, to Caspar’s imaginary _fans—_

Linhardt’s heart stops in his chest.

“L-Linhardt?” Caspar’s voice cracks, and Linhardt can’t look at him. Seeing his face now would only make things worse. “Why do you have all of these?”

He can’t bring himself to lie. “Because I bought them. They’re my clothes, so they’re in my closet.”

Caspar whirls around, and he doesn’t even look angry. He looks _hurt,_ and Linhardt steadfastly keeps looking away.

He’s feverish. His head spins and none of this is making it any better. Linhardt does what he wants and now what he wants is to not have this conversation.

“Why would you do this? Linhardt, tell me!”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

Caspar bristles; he never had liked being pushed aside. “Are you serious right now? You’re not gonna give me a straight answer about why you’ve been _lying_ to me for years?”

“You weren’t supposed to find out,” Linhardt replies calmly, defaulting to his usual indifference.

It isn’t the right thing to say. It is, absolutely, the worst thing he could have said.

“It would have been a waste of your money if they weren’t sold. So I took care of it.” He shrugs.

Nothing about him is indifferent. Linhardt trembles, hands clutching the bed sheets even though they do nothing to ground him. He’s going to lose everything.

Caspar stares at him for a long time. 

“You’re unbelievable. Do you think my ego’s so big that I couldn’t handle the truth? Do you think it bothers me that much that no one really likes my music?”

Linhardt’s eyes snap to him. “Caspar—”

“Well, it _doesn’t._ I don’t know what made you think that I’d rather you spare my feelings than be honest with me. I can take it, Linhardt. I love making music, and I love playing for people. But I do it for myself, and if you think some silly little _bullshit_ like not selling t-shirts is going to hurt my pride, then you don’t really know me at all.”

Caspar doesn’t let it linger in the air. It’s seconds before he’s grabbing his things and out of the room, leaving Linhardt with a sour taste in his mouth. 

He doesn’t sleep that night.

**THE FINAL COUNTDOWN♫**

Caspar removes his earphones when someone taps his back frantically, and alarmed, he looks over at them. It’s Bernadetta, looking like she wants to cry.

“Oh, phew, it’s just you,” he says, breathing a sigh of relief.

“What do you mean it’s just me?! Who else would it be?!” Oh no, she’s panicking again.

“Come on, take deep breaths! In for three, out for five.” Her face contorts even further. Caspar places his hands on her shoulders, and her eyes widen into saucers. “ _Breathe,_ Bernadetta.”

He shoots her a grin, and thankfully, it’s enough to make her calm down. Slightly.

“… I can’t believe you’re making me man the t-shirt stand,” she mumbles, betrayed. 

He pauses for a bit, then says, “Nah, it’s alright. You don’t have to talk to anybody, just hide in the booth. Okay?” 

“Wait,” she perks up. “Really?” Caspar can hear her mutter an _oh thank god_ to herself.

“Yeah!” His smile is strained, and he’s more distracted than he should be. 

_Focus, Caspar!_

There’s another mic check right before the concert and Caspar can’t miss it. He says goodbye to Bernadetta and gathers his band members before rushing onto the stage as Hubert calls his name. Caspar arrives, panting and barely on time, while Hubert clicks his tongue.

“I’m here!” he calls out, breathless.

From the sidelines, Edelgard looks frazzled. Petra is speaking to her in hushed tones but even she can’t seem to calm her down.

Caspar can’t do anything for her—he can’t do anything more than sing. He’ll do his best today because he has to.

**PUNK ROCK SWANSONG♫**

The sun had set thirty minutes ago. He’s late.

Linhardt is shaky on his feet as he makes his way out of the car. 

“Wait just a second!” Ferdinand says, unbuckling his seatbelt and making his way around so he can keep Linhardt steady. He looks worried, but Linhardt has no time to entertain him. “Linhardt, are you sure about this?”

He just shrugs Ferdinand off, closing his eyes and standing up straight. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” He doesn’t know if it’s the truth. “We’re late already, let’s go.”

Ferdinand looks doubtful, but he makes it his duty to get Linhardt to the venue safely. He’s a good guy, and Caspar’s friend; Caspar probably wouldn’t appreciate that he was treating Ferdinand so poorly.

Linhardt, for better or for worse, has always had a one-track mind. When he’d been a child, he spent hours poring over books—they were his only friends, even when Linhardt wouldn’t admit that he needed any. They’d been the only things in his life that were important, but that’d been before _Caspar._

Caspar and Linhardt had met like this:

It’s Linhardt’s sixth birthday. His parents had decided without him to hold a party—Linhardt, upon finding out, had just shut his eyes to ward off an oncoming headache.

Linhardt’s content to stay in his room and read, but Father insists he come down so he can introduce him to the other kids. He sees through him immediately; they’re his office mates' children, and he wants to make a _good impression._

Fine. He can do that, but he’s bringing his book.

There’s too many children, and oh goodness, one of them runs straight into a glass door… and gets a nosebleed. Linhardt feels faint, and he hurriedly offers him some tissues

"Thanks!! I’m Caspar," the kid says when the bleeding stops. He also sticks his hand out for him to shake. The bloody one he’d been clutching his nose with.

Linhardt blacks out.

“Everyone was screaming!! Are you okay?” Caspar says when he finally wakes up, thankfully having changed somehow. Is that his shirt?

Linhardt clutches his head and says, “I think I’m done for today.”

One of the other kids calls him an unflattering name. Linhardt doesn’t particularly care, but oh boy does Caspar. Caspar kicks the kid in the shin, sticks his tongue out and drags Linhardt away. It’s an amusing sight, considering Caspar is smaller than him.

“That boy was dumb. Don’t listen to him, Linhardt! I like you!!” Caspar insisted. “What do you wanna do now?”

“I am going to nap under that tree. You will not be doing that.”

“Oh.”

“… If you sit there quietly, you may join me.”

“’Kay!”

After that, books just couldn’t be all of Linhardt’s world anymore.

Ferdinand seems not to mind that he’s been lost in his thoughts. He looks gently at Linhardt, waiting patiently for him to gather himself. Then, they keep walking.

When the t-shirt booth is in sight, Linhardt turns to Ferdinand and, despite everything, manages a small smile. 

“Thank you. I should be fine now.”

Ferdinand doesn’t even look surprised. Instead, he beams. “Always, Linhardt.”

Linhardt turns back to the booth and walks toward it with long strides. When he arrives, he’s surprised to find it’s not empty.

Bernadetta huddles at the corner of the booth, and for a moment Linhardt thinks she’s hiding. But no, she’s actually focused on something on the table in front of her and it’s—it’s his ledger. She’s scribbling something on it, before she carefully slips some money into the cash box.

She’s wearing The Fugly Shirt.

She sits up straight and bites her lip, looking around the field. As expected, no one’s approaching her—no one really wants to buy those shirts—but she seems to be waiting for someone.

In that moment, Linhardt feels an inordinate amount of fondness for her.

He reaches the booth and clears his throat. His voice is raspy when he says, “I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

Bernadetta startles, whipping her head around and putting her hands up in front of her as if to shield herself. “I-it’s you!” She sounds accusatory. “You’re supposed to be sick!”

“I am. But it doesn’t really matter, I’m here for my shift.”

She furrows her brow, pursing her lips. “No, you’re here to watch Caspar.” He can’t really deny that. “Well, you’re too early. They pushed his set back; he’s going last.”

Linhardt frowns, confused. “Why would they do that?”

“I’m not sure…” 

A voice cuts in. “It is because Hubert gave Edelgard a request,” Petra says from behind Linhardt, and while he’s surprised to see her, he wonders where this is going. “Ferdinand apparently had been asking a favor of her.”

It’s a silly thought, but… Linhardt thinks his heart just grew three sizes this night.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and it’s a promise to do better by all his friends.

Petra smiles at him, always seeing far more than others. “You are most welcome.”

Linhardt has to sag against the table, and Bernadetta scurries around to bring the other chair around the table. Petra leans over it at the same time and deftly removes a tank top from its hanger, slipping it on. Reluctantly, Linhardt puts on a shirt as well.

They’re an odd bunch, the three of them. Linhardt finds he doesn’t mind.

Edelgard steps up to the mic and announces Dorothea’s going next. He spends the next fifteen minutes trying not to shake his leg, knowing there’s only Caspar’s set left. Dorothea sings beautifully as always, and Linhardt thinks her gaze lingers on their tent, and that she’s smiling a little bit wider, but he can’t be sure. 

He’s still sick but he’s more awake than ever, because finally… 

The lights cut out.

“GARREG MACH!” Caspar’s disembodied voice booms. It makes Linhardt’s heart skip a beat. “ARE YOU READY FOR A GOOD TIME?”

There’s a couple of _woos_ from the crowd and some reluctant clapping.

“TOO BAD… BECAUSE YOU’RE IN FOR A **GREAT** ONE!”

On cue, the drummer taps out a beat and the lights begin to shine on the center of the stage, one by one.

He hears before he can see the strumming of the guitar, eyes still adjusting to the faint light. It grows stronger, builds and builds upon the tension in the crowd—some of it is confusion, perhaps, at the theatrics; most is probably parents’ irritation at the fact that they can no longer keep an eye on their kids. There are murmurs among the people gathered, but Linhardt hones in on one thing: the closing of Caspar’s eyes as he inhales deeply.

Linhardt closes his own eyes before the singing starts. 

Everything registers in a different way. The clamminess of his hands doesn’t seem to matter as much as the scent of freshly cut grass in this open field; the discomfort of wearing a sweater in the damp evening air seems to dissipate like the clear notes of the musicians’ instruments. A thought comes to Linhardt; when had he become such a romantic?

He smiles. Probably when he’d fallen in love with Caspar.

The first song melts into the second one into the third, and Linhardt opens his eyes to enjoy the view.

The spotlights are brighter. Caspar’s head is bowed, but there’s a grin on his face. He’s _enjoying_ this, the mere act of being on stage, and Linhardt wonders how he could have ever thought otherwise.

There comes one final crescendo—

I’ll tell him, Linhardt thinks.

—and the concert ends.

Caspar is ushered offstage. Linhardt stands so fast that his chair topples over, but he doesn’t care. He steels himself as he trudges his way to the far end of the venue and where the performers are backstage.

He must take quite a while, because Edelgard is just stepping off the stage after giving her final remarks as he arrives near the tents. Linhardt, in all the years that he’s known her, has never seen her look so frazzled. It’s because Edelgard looks so tired that when she turns and sees him, Linhardt finds it in him to be polite and not immediately shove her aside to look for Caspar.

He’s surprised that all Edelgard does when she notices him is smile. That’s hardly the first thing people think to do when they see him, after all.

“What?” he asks warily, slowing down. Edelgard raises an eyebrow at him. “ _What?_ ”

She laughs lightly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Nothing. You and Caspar are such pains to deal with. I still can’t believe I listened to Ferdinand and pushed his set back for you.”

Linhardt stares.

“That wasn’t me,” he says finally. “I didn’t ask him to do that, he just—Ferdinand—”

Edelgard raises a hand to stop any further protest. “I know you didn’t. Regardless. It was nice of him to have thought of you and asked,” she says pointedly, and Linhardt makes a note to thank Ferdinand _sincerely._ She sighs, continuing, “… especially when he knew the show might be canceled.”

That’s news to him. Linhardt blinks, tilting his head. 

She gives him a pointed look. “It wasn’t the most put together event, that’s for sure.”

“And despite all that, you still pushed Caspar’s set back. Why?” 

He’s genuinely curious now, but his restlessness to get to Caspar must show because she just smiles and shakes her head, moving past him.

“Good luck, Linhardt,” she calls over her shoulder, giving him a pointed look. Does just everyone know about him carrying a torch for Caspar? Sothis.

Linhardt tries to calm the frantic beating of his heart as he makes his way around the tents. In the end, it doesn’t matter; when he turns a corner and the first thing he sees is a shock of blue hair and the words PUNK ROCK STAGE, his heart stops altogether. 

“ _Oh,_ ” he breathes.

Caspar’s turned away from him, a fresh shirt slung over his arm that he’s yet to change into. The lines of his shoulders are tense—have been since Linhardt spoke—and he seems to be looking down at something but Linhardt can’t focus on that now or otherwise he’ll never say what’s on his mind.

“Caspar?” Linhardt clears his throat. “Yes, well. I love you.” Silence. “Quite a bit. Do you reciprocate?” 

No response. 

“No? Well, all right then.” He takes a deep breath and makes to leave, only for Caspar to let out an emphatic _ARGH,_ scratching frustratedly at his hair. “Goodness gracious, will you make up your mind?”

Linhardt turns back to Caspar, confused, only to see that he hasn’t even looked up from what he was doing. And was that…?

“Caspar. CASPAR. Are you wearing _earphones?_ ” he says incredulously, but Caspar doesn’t even stir. Linhardt stalks up behind him and plucks the buds out of his ears by the wire, startling him. “ _Boo._ ”

Caspar shrieks, jumping a foot in the air. Well, at least he’s finally looking at Linhardt, instead of at his phone. At his phone where, Linhardt sees, is their own text exchange.

“… Were you about to message me?” Linhardt says slowly.

“… Yes?” Caspar asks in return, looking terrified at his sudden appearance still.

“What were you going to send?” Linhardt asks. Maybe it sounds a little like a demand, but he doesn’t care right now. Not when Caspar looks like he’d just been caught with his hand down his pants or _something,_ something seriously incriminating because Caspar looks terrified and it’s _not_ just his imagination. “Caspar. Tell me.”

“Iwasgonnasendyouthesong—” Caspar tries to say in one breath, but ends up choking halfway through. 

Linhardt, despite everything, finds it in him to laugh. 

“ _Breathe,_ ” he soothes, eyes crinkling fondly. “I’m not going anywhere. You were going to send…?”

Caspar looks up at him, lips parted.

“I was going to send you the video of my song,” he says quietly. “The love song I wrote for you.”

“… Oh. You. For me?” 

Caspar seems to realize then what he’d just said, because his eyes widen and his cheeks flush so prettily, but Linhardt can’t blame him because he’s just so, so warm himself right now, and—

“Yeah. It’s the _love song_ I wrote for _you,_ you big lying _dick._ ” Caspar coughs, but he doesn’t even sound mad. Linhardt reaches out with a hand to hold his. He lets out an _eep._ “You big dumb. Dumb guy.”

Linhardt laughs shakily, squeezing Caspar’s hand, but he isn’t done talking.

“Sothis, Linhardt. I was so _angry._ And then I was sad because I was going to perform without you there, but then I had the idea to profess my love for you through music video—”

“‘Profess your love for me’, hm,” Linhardt said, trying and failing to stifle a smile.

“Right?! And why should I, when you weren’t being honest with me about the whole, you know, t-shirt thing.”

“I _am_ sorry about that. I was just trying to spare your feelings.”

“Which didn’t need to be spared!”

“I know that _now,_ ” he admits, albeit reluctantly. He sighs. “I didn’t want to see you hurt. But by doing that, I know I wasn’t giving you enough credit.”

Caspar’s lips twist, and he looks away. “Yeah.”

Linhardt’s own smile is a little sad, but he squeezes Caspar’s hand and urges him to meet his eyes. “You were amazing tonight, just so you know.”

Caspar beams. “You think? I couldn’t have done it without you, you know.”

“If you say so.”

“Linhardt, can I kiss you? I’m gonna kiss you now.”

Linhardt scrunches up his nose. “That’s disgusting, I’m sick.”

Caspar just laughs. He stands on his tippy toes to kiss Linhardt on the forehead, murmuring sweet melodies for only him to hear.

Linhardt could get used to this.

**♫**

“I love you, Linhardt.”

“Uhuh.”

“You haven’t said it back!”

“Hm.”

“Linhardt! _Linhaaardt!_ Say it!”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“LINHARDT—”

“Caspar. I love you.”

“ _Aw yiss…_ Babe, we’re gonna be the power couple of the **century**.”

“I’m vetoing babe.”

“Fair enough.”

**END. ♡**

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter.](https://twitter.com/beemcvie)


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